Tag: odd prompts (Page 17 of 23)

Devil’s in the Dance

May 26, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Greystone darted ahead of Miranda, his silver-grey dappled fur a blur against the stone.

“I hear them!”

He was already around the corner, and the cry came faintly. She hadn’t intended to speed up – appearances were more important in Dragur Keep than she preferred – but found herself moving faster, just as her heart beat faster.

The invitation meant all were welcome. The gnomes, the elephants, the dwarves, the trolls – everyone came at the Dragon King’s invitation, even the humans. The peace treaty ball was politicking and pretense rolled into one, with a dash of snobbery and slight fear.

And for those unlucky few, the invitation compelled them to arrive, whether or not they wanted to. Once broken, the magic seal wrapped around the unsuspecting recipient. The trouble was, by the time the mail arrived, there was no escaping those glowing tendrils that bound the geas.

Just as it had for Miranda, the tangible reminder of her father’s last wish.

There were pleasures, however, and she recalled them from her childhood with glee. It wasn’t just roast chicken the cat was excited about. No, it was the opportunity to see something she never thought she’d witness again. Miranda sped her steps with a dragonet’s whimsy.

Greyhound’s enormous ears twitched as he sat impatiently waiting for her, tufts of silver erupting from the tips in wavy plumes that reflected sunlight. Green eyes with slit pupils gazed into the courtyard without interruption. “Took you long enough.”

Against the cobblestone floor came rhythmic tapping. The octopus danced in a frilly practice tutu, legs in ballet pointe slippers, and ended her warmup in a twirl where all but one leg flared out below the ballet garment in a tutu parody.

The performer stretched in impossible ways before beginning again, this time with variations of speed and added frills. She leapt into the air, purple legs flaring wide in all directions, before landing upside down. Orange suckers held her in place, dangling from one of the unlit torches to continue limbering exercises, three tentacles at a time.

“I can’t believe it,” hissed Greystone. “She looks exactly as she did when we were younger. If this is practice, the real event will be stunning.”

“I never thought I’d see the great Edemame again,” whispered Miranda. “Isn’t she booked out decades in advance?”

She leaned against the door and soaked in the sight. She had spent the first performance glued to her father’s side, and if she let herself believe in the moment, it was as if he were with her once more.

Even if finding the dancer here meant her father had always intended this year to be the year he trapped her into returning.

***

This week, nother Mike’s prompt was perfect to continue the draft that doesn’t need to be worked on but is so much fun to write, In Defense of Dragons. Every ball needs a spectacle (or so says the author who has never, in fact, actually been to a ballroom dance).

My prompt went to Leigh Kimmel: The magic wasn’t in the wand, s/he discovered. The quill, on the other hand…

Love and Terror

May 12, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Gina ran into the conservatory and felt the humidity hit her face as the door banged shut behind her. The pot in her hand didn’t have much time left.

She could tell where her grandmother had already been, just by how well the plants were doing. The vegetables were noticeably plumper after a visit, and odd combinations managed to thrive in ways that would make horticulturists shudder. Leaves became perkier, stems greener, buds unfurled into colorful and fragrant blooms. Vines trailed over brick and stone, trailing delicate stems in curls with the promise of fruit.

Humming came from the farthest end of the conservatory, where the special plants were.

Gina sped her footsteps toward the humming, careful not to touch any of the plants. Her gifts weren’t wanted here, and it was rare she dared the overgrown paths.

“Gina?” Always the tone of surprise, but her grandmother’s voice was welcoming nonetheless. “What are you doing here?”

“Grandma, it needs help. I took it too far.” She held up the pot of violets, brown and shriveled in a bed of parched dirt.

“You must learn control of your magic,” Grandmother admonished. “I won’t always be around to save your plants, you know.”

She ran a hand gently over the flowers, which purred and followed her touch. Life bloomed green and purple under her aged hand, the swollen knuckles defying her gift.

The girl grinned and gave a little dance, her red sneakers hitting the brick floor in a tattoo of staccato steps. “Thanks, Grandma!”

“Gina, try to keep this one only half-dead if you can. Now scoot. Get out of here before I have to revive it again.”

She ducked her head and tucked the pot close to her chest. Before she could turn to go, a hand fell on her shoulder.

“Wait a moment, will you?” Grandmother stooped down and spoke directly to the pot of violets. Her voice crooned a beckoning call, and the violets swayed as her breath passed over the newly regrown petals. “Now. You be good, or Grandma will get you.”

The quiet words sunk in for a moment, as if the violets were wondering whether the old woman meant it. Then flowers doubled in size, spilling over Gina’s small hands in their eagerness.

She leaned over and kissed her grandmother’s wrinkled cheek. “That’ll keep them in line before I kill them again next week!”

“Threats always do, dear. Now shoo. The cucumbers still need inspiration.”

***

This week, my prompt came from nother Mike, who wants plants to purr. Mine went to Becky Jones, and I hope she continues a dangerously delicious story!

Schooltime Songs

April 28, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Jake wasn’t quite sure what it meant when the little anime figure beside the computer monitor started talking, but it probably wasn’t a good sign. He couldn’t tell anyone, obviously. His twin sister Annie already made fun of him for having a statue of a girl.

He swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable. The plastic woman in the sailor outfit and high boots made him uncomfortable in ways he wasn’t sure he was ready for yet. He just knew that he liked looking at the tiny figurine. Plus, cool time powers. What wasn’t to like?

But now…maybe insanity came with the hormones they talked about in health class.

“Time to get up!” the statue chirped in a singsong. She twirled her staff and thumped it on his desk. “School is waiting!”

“It’s summer,” Jake mumbled. He wasn’t sure he’d moved or even blinked since he’d heard a noise and woken up to keep Annie out of his room again.

The door opened, and his mom poked her head in. “Were you talking to someone?”

He shook his head, still under the blue and black checked plaid blanket.

“Well, get up then. Sprinkles needs her walk. Your turn.” She closed the door gently, her footsteps echoing down the hall toward his sister’s room.

The sailor winked at him and gave a snappy salute.

Jake hurried to pull his jeans on while still under the blanket, careful to avoid eye contact.

When he got back from a tour of sniffing neighborhood mailboxes with a fluffy black dog convinced she was four times larger than she was, the house was in an uproar.

“I’m telling you, it warbled!” Annie was shouting at the top of his lungs. Dad was pouring coffee, looking apologetic as he headed for the garage.

“Water doesn’t really sing, dear. Not even in singing fountains.” Mom was having none of it, humming to tease the girl while she trimmed the flower stems. She placed the bouquet of flowers in the mason jar always kept in the kitchen window.

Jake stared. “What didn’t warble?”

“It did,” Annie insisted. “I was taking a shower and the water began warbling.”

“Glad you finally showered,” he said under his breath. He caught her glare. “I mean, are you sure you weren’t singing without realizing it? You warble, right?”

“Why would I sing about school? Or you?” She scoffed and shoved a piece of toast in her mouth. “Imma nos two ped.”

“No, you just sound stupid,” Jake replied, and fled before she could catch him.

He’d nearly forgotten by lunchtime. Mom forgot time when she was in the greenhouse, so dinner was the big meal together. He usually just grabbed a sandwich and snacks from the approved healthy bin if he really needed something to tide him over. Only this time, the kitchen wasn’t empty.

His mother sat dangling a dainty, empty teacup from one pinky. From the odd sharp scent in the air, he wasn’t sure she’d actually been drinking tea.

“Uh, Mom?”

She hiccupped. “You know those mini daffodils I have in the greenhouse? The white ones with the orange center? I love the scent on those.”

He hadn’t a clue what she meant. “Sure, Mom. Did they get a fungus or a pest infestation or something?”

“They sang,” she said, and looked at her cup sadly. “They want you to go to school.”

“What, owl delivery was broken?”

He could have fallen on the linoleum when she nodded. “I thought the powers skipped both you and Annie.”

Behind his mother, the flowers in the mason jar began glowing.

***

Not sure I’m quite happy with this one, but I’ve been looking for an opportunity to use those singing flowers. Might play with it some more. Thanks to nother mike for the opening paragraph’s prompt! Mine went to AC Young, who rescued the orangutan on a motorcycle. Inspired by real life, but apparently I have a movie to watch…

The Endless Road

April 20, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Joel stared out the window, wondering if he’d be able to fix things this time. It wasn’t a matter of whether he’d screwed up, Lisa had told him. It was how badly he’d done so.

He huffed, fogging the glass, and wiped it away, careful to use his flannel sleeve so he didn’t smudge the glass. Then ruined it by leaning his forehead against the porthole. He jerked away when the cold sunk into his consciousness.

Didn’t matter. The view was incredible, and he might as well enjoy it. He certainly wasn’t going to enjoy Lisa for much longer, the way things were going.

It’d be easier if they weren’t in a confined environment, but they’d gotten through training so easily. Laughing at the issues other couples had, the barbed commentary helping them get through the selection process. They’d passed with ease, thinking the multi-year journey couldn’t be worse than what they’d experienced in the dome.

But now, here on the Endless Road, decisions tended to have more impact than they used to back on Earth.

There was no turning back again, but Joel suspected the stars cared little whether the travelers made it to their destination without tearing themselves apart.

***

Short and sweet this week. My odd prompt came from Cedar Sanderson: The endless road calls to the traveler, but once they set foot on it, there is no turning back again.

Mine went to nother Mike, who wrote about the real reason the road sings. Check it out at More Odds Than Ends!

Escape

April 12, 2021 / fionagreywrites

This post has been removed by the author in preparation for publication.

***

I took some liberties with this week’s prompt from Leigh Kimmel to make it fit with Paladin’s Legacy, book two of the Professor Porter series (which is achingly slow, but finally stutter-stepping its way along. “You hear a thumping from under the heating register, like there’s someone in the basement tapping on the ductwork. Except this house doesn’t have a basement.”

My prompt went to nother Mike: “The city had a sudden rash of helpful acts of vandalism.”

Interested in creative and writing prompts? Check out More Odds Than Ends here.

Space Cookies

April 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

Squeak flicked his tail in irritation and chittered at the recalcitrant computer. “Did you change our course again?”

“After the last time you yelled at me?” Black and white fur stretched from a blob to form slowly extending spotted paws. A yawn, and ivory fangs flashed with a curled pink tongue half-hidden behind. “Wouldn’t have dared. I programmed the course based on what you asked.”

“Linky, we’re headed straight for that asteroid.” He curled his fluffy tail around the chair back for balance and pressed his paws against the computer screen with rapid motions, adjusting their course.

She yawned again, her voice still low with sleep. “You wanted to visit the asteroid. You told me to program the computer for the asteroid.”

“You programmed it to go through the asteroid,” Squeak snapped at the cat. He flattened his ears backward. Why couldn’t his partner have been a squirrel, like usual? She slept all the time and took up four times the room. He could have had a whole crew. But Linky came cheap, because she did things her way, and he was a sucker for a bargain.

The cat stretched, her head low and her tail spiking straight upward. “Fastest way to get those core samples you wanted. Then we swing back around the other side and orbit while we analyze the results.”

“Though, Linky. You want to go through the asteroid. I wanted to land on it. On its surface.”

She blinked pale green eyes at him. “The initial scan shows ice. I programmed us to slow down to drilling speed. Safer than a spacewalk. You change our speed, you change our trajectory.”

“We’re almost there.” Squeak cut her off and blew out his cheeks. Why hadn’t he gotten married like his mother wanted? He could raise a whole brood of space squirrels. “Suit up.”

She twitched her whiskers and turned away. “Aye aye, cap’n. If that’s what you want.”

They both knew they had several hours before they’d reach the asteroid, especially after the course change. Squeak was just getting rid of her, and they both knew it.

He’d just turned back to the computer when the spaceship jolted. Then jolted again. “Hailstorm?”

“Asteroid field,” Linky said. She flowed toward the controls and took over, steering through the pebbles. “Just little ones. I had us programmed to go around it.”

Squirrels didn’t blush like those weird talking apes he’d found a few planets back, but Squeak wanted to all of a sudden. The Nutter Butter didn’t deserve the kind of reckless disregard and endangerment he’d just caused. He puffed out his cheeks again and took a deep breath, then tilted his chin up. “I’m – I’m sorry.”

She lifted a paw in the feline equivalent of a shrug. “You should get some sleep. You spent all night checking our inventory.”

He hung his head, ears drooping. “Double checking. I knew you did it yesterday afternoon.”

“I’m aware of that.” Linky’s tone was dry. “You trust me at all?”

“Getting there.” He hesitated. “I’m going to crash out. Get some rest. You should, too.”

She stretched again, arching her back, and padded her way over to the sleeping room. Linky curled up but kept her eyes open, watching him with those enormous eyes. “Won’t argue.”

He hesitated again, and a mental ghost whispered into his brain. Trust your crew, or stay out of space. Squeak gave a half-smile at the memory. Uncle Fletch had been just as ornery as Linky. Why, he’d even flown one of the asteroid belt races just to annoy his mother.

He curled up next to Linky, and for the first time used her tail as a pillow. Like crew should. For the first time, he realized she probably hadn’t been sleeping well either. Maybe that was why she seemed tired so often.

“Long day,” he said with a sigh. He stared at the ceiling, the lights auto-dimmed now that movement had stopped. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw her eyes close. Her body relaxed, with a faint rumble he felt vibrate through her longer fur into his shorter coat.

“Yes,” Linky said. “Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got a big day ahead.”

***

Becky Jones and I traded prompts this week. A cat and a squirrel curling up together (and talking) was given life by a conversation about humanity’s future regrets in taking cats into space.

In return, she used “I have a lot of work travel coming up and wanted shells in place” for inspiration.

Join Odd Prompts at More Odds Than Ends!

Capturing Joy

March 21, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“Don’t mind Katarina,” Serena said, and gave him a welcoming hug. She pulled back and patted her white bun with one hand. “She darts in and out of here so fast, it’s hard to keep track of her. I gave her free rein a long time ago. You’ll meet her soon enough, when she’s ready.”

Carl nodded and smiled, trying to conceal his breaking heart. When Dad had called, he hadn’t believed his grandmother had been as bad as the stories. Surely it had only been a single bad day. She’d been fine when he’d seen her a few months ago, independent and fierce as always, for all that she was barely five feet tall.

He’d texted his boss that he needed time off and hadn’t waited for approval. The six-hour drive always felt vaguely apocalyptic to him. Sure, it had something to do with Chicago drivers’ Mad Max tendencies, definitely. But when he hit the windmill farms, enormous towers symmetrically spaced in empty green fields like mechanical plants, rotors moving slow, with no one else in sight – that was when the cognitive dissonance hit.

He hadn’t quite shaken off the sense of dystopia by the time he’d hit grandmother Serena’s tiny house, set back among the trees and accessible only by a narrow, winding road. Better to think of giant mechanical trees than to think about his grandmother forced into some home, unable to care for herself any longer.

Unable to take pride in her self-sufficiency. Unable to choose what she did, and when. Under someone else’s control. She’d wither away and die from the indignity, assuming she even understood what was happening.

Carl clung to hope as he hung up his jacket, shedding rain droplets onto the polished wooden floor. The cottage was immaculate, as always, with walls covered with photographs. He breathed deep of the familiar lavender and lemon polish, gazing around. “Who’s Katarina?”

Serena had disappeared into the kitchen, and came back with a spoon in hand. “Your father called you, didn’t he? Always convinced I’m losing my marbles.”

He coughed, startled. It loosened his tongue. “Well, have you?”

She pointed the spoon at him and gave him a look.

He stepped back hastily and bumped the door. Carl raised his hands in surrender. “Fine, yes, he called.”

“Stay a few days with your gran,” she said, and lowered the spoon. She turned back to the stove, disappearing out of sight. “You’ll meet her soon enough, mayhap. Katarina is real. Always has been. I’d always hoped you’d meet her sooner, but she comes when and to whom she will.”

Carl started to follow the new scent of vanilla and sugar the spoon had promised, but his eye caught on a photograph. This one had a simple black wooden frame. Didn’t matter how often he came, she’d always put something new up. Serena always said the scenery needed to change frequently to keep from getting bored.

Would they let her put up this many photographs in assisted living? Would a kind nurse help her change out the photos in each frame and add more until the wall was a mural of captured smiles and poses? Would they realize she’d been a professional photographer, or assume dementia when the people in the pictures were so varied?

He blinked back tears. Some of his favorite memories were going out with his gran on walks just to explore. He’d had a small camera appropriate for child-sized hands and clumsiness, but he’d delighted in finding items or events, whether a budding spring flower or girls laughing at their first double dutch jump rope success.

Capture the joy, she’d always said, and he’d dutifully raise the camera to his eye and try his best.

He looked closer at the image that had caught his eye. An unfamiliar little girl of five or so, just a blur of dark hair and an impish smile. The black and white photograph must have been treated to highlight her red jacket. The trend seemed awfully modern for his grandmother.

Carl leaned in, his eye caught by an anachronism. The little girl looked like she was wearing modern sneakers with her old-fashioned school uniform. Movement flagged his attention.

The little girl winked at him.

He gasped. Stumbling down the hallway, he focused on the scene in front of him. Grandma making cookies was only surpassed in normalcy by Grandma taking photographs.

“She’ll be here soon,” Serena said from where she spooned cookie dough onto a tray. “Always takes her a while to transit out of that world and back into ours.”

“Whaaa?” Carl croaked with great eloquence.

She looked up at him with a sharp eye. “You didn’t think I’d let you stay a lawyer forever, did you? My time is short in this world, boyo, and you’re my heir.”

Silence filled the sunny kitchen, gleaming off well-polished wood. He stood there with his mouth open, the padded kitchen chairs too far away to catch him if he fell over.

Serena put the tray in the oven and set a timer. She turned around, wiping her hands on a towel. “You didn’t think I was a normal photographer, did you?”

He hiccupped. Footsteps sounded behind him, light and quick. Child-sized noises.

“Best get to training or the power will go wild when it hits you. I bet you’ve forgotten all I taught you as a boy.”

***

On this week’s odd prompt exchange, mine went to ‘nother Mike: “She closed her eyes, and saw nothing but sparkles.” I can’t wait to see what he does with it.

In return, Leigh Kimmel challenged me with the following: “On the wall is an old-fashioned photograph of a little girl in a red jacket. You look closer and realize that the girl is wearing modern sneakers.” This was a fun one – thanks, Leigh!

Want to join in? Check out More Odds Than Ends!

Zoo Day

March 13, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“Fishcicles,” Anna insisted. Her jaw elevated, a stubborn point hovering above her collar and scarf. Dark eyebrows furrowed into a glare.

Brad sighed and spread his hands flat on the rock wall surrounding the polar bear enclosure. Being on the receiving end of Anna’s glares usually led to worse later. “I’m telling you, fishcicles are not a thing.”

She poked him in the side with a bony finger. “They totally are. It’s an animal enrichment thing. Keeps them from getting bored. They freeze a bunch of fish and give it to the bears. Snack and play all in one. What else would you call it besides a fishcicle?”

“They freeze a lot of things around here,” he muttered. The rock was freezing, just like the rest of him. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “How about we head into the aviary for a while and warm up?”

“You do what you want,” she loftily informed him. “I’m going to see the giraffes.”

He sighed and followed his girlfriend. The path leading to the giraffes was covered in familiar fake hoofprints and bird tracks. Enormous pawprints led to the left, where the big cats prowled behind glass enclosures.

Or did, when it wasn’t well below freezing. Today the cats were huddled into furry communal piles, with no interest in entertaining visitors who should be prey.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the zoo. He had a membership. There was something new every time, like the escaped flamingo flock or the rhino’s sneezing fit. He just liked it better when it was warm. When fishcicles weren’t a consideration, and ice cream dripped onto his hands, making Anna laugh and give him a sticky-sweet kiss.

Brad caught up to her at the edge of the enclosure. Once they’d seen the giraffes racing in a circle, the seven-foot baby ungainly as it tried to keep up with the longer legs of its herdmates. Today, only a lone giraffe awaited, outstretched head nuzzling sadly at bare branches. Anna had stopped to watch, her chin tucked back into her woolen scarf.

“You realize there are about six other people here at the whole zoo, and they’re all employees?” He flinched at her expression and backed up a step. “I just meant that they aren’t letting people feed the giraffes today.”

“You can if you have any food,” a deep voice said from above his head. “Those crackers the zoo employees sell to gullible tourists are pretty boring. You got any Doritos?”

Anna squeaked. “Did you hear that?”

“I’m pretty sure the giraffe just talked.” Brad felt his eyes burn in the cold air.

“I’ve got a name, you know.” The knobby head tilted, and those giant brown eyes looked annoyed. “The zookeepers call me Zippy, but Mom calls me Zeke.”

“Hi, Zeke.” Anna’s faint voice floated onto the air. “I don’t have any Doritos. Sorry.”

The creature sighed. “That’s all right. You probably didn’t think I liked them. Let me tell you, that cheese dust is amazing.”

“Or that you could talk,” Brad blurted. He wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a frozen hallucination.

The giraffe bent all the way down to look him in the eye. “There’s a lot you probably don’t know about us. Well, let me tell you…”

***

Becky Jones and I traded animal-themed Odd Prompts this week. I had fun with talking giraffes, and tossed aeronautical rabbits her way.

The Shadow

March 7, 2021 / fionagreywrites

“The Shadow President laid his plans with care.” This one from AC Young was an interesting challenge. I prefer to avoid politics as much as one can these days, so the obvious answer is out. Similarly, while I enjoy reading some alternative/historical universes, I’m not particularly attracted to creating them. Done well, they’re great; done poorly, not so much.

But there are other types of presidents, and perhaps one of their shadows could wander off and have adventures on its own, J.M. Barrie style?

Which led to – I am not kidding – conversations about space assassins. The guild needs a president, right? What about scouting organizations? HOAs? (Please tell me we won’t export those to space.)

And that led to this.

***

“Those crows are hanging around your yard a lot.” The sharp, nasally voice interrupted George’s reading. “You’d better not be hanging up birdfeeders again.”

He put down his book with a sigh and looked over at the post-and-rail fence that had been perfectly adequate until his new neighbor moved in. Why, he’d even had conversations at the fence in the past, just like you saw on TV. With all three of this hag’s predecessors.

The hag in question was wearing her usual sweater twinset and pearls, looking for all the world like an out-of-place schoolmarm. One that tormented rather than taught students, judging by the near-permanent snarl on her face. He’d only seen it leave when she was advocating to form a homeowner’s association.

As if this neighborhood didn’t already take care of its own.

He didn’t bother to stand up and head for the fence. The conversation wouldn’t last long enough to be worth the effort. “I don’t hang up birdfeeders, Janice. Never have.” Not since Lydia passed, he amended silently. He was sure some of the crows retained fond memories, and he wouldn’t chase them off. Nor would he share Lydia’s memory with someone who didn’t value nature.

“I’m the president of the homeowners’ association, and you’d best believe I will make you find a way from keeping bird dookie off my car.”

“You want me to put up a scarecrow?” He raised his glass of iced tea in a mock toast. “Only if it will scare off the HOA I didn’t agree to belong to. I’m not subject to your rules, nor can I control the crows.”

Squeaky fuss emanated from the fenceline, but George paid it no more attention than he’d give to a yapping dog. He took a drink and picked up his book. The mystery was far more interesting than anything Janice Tweller had to say.

The light was dying by the time he turned the last page, and the air growing chill. He went inside, bones creaking after so long without moving. A solitary dinner under the kitchen lights was in his future, just as it had been for three and a half years now.

The pot was on to boil water when he realized he’d forgotten to get the mail. He was so engrossed in mocking the latest ads that were all he’d received that he nearly missed the giant red paper tacked to his front door as he trudged back inside.

Janice’s latest trick, presumably. George rolled his eyes and snagged the paper to laugh at while he made dinner.

“Well, now, Lydia.” He still talked as if his wife could hear him, and who’s to say she didn’t? “Looks like the hag has found a new way to annoy me. She thinks she’s found a legal way to force HOA membership. Plus fees, of course.”

He stirred the spaghetti sauce and gave it a taste test. “More garlic, I think. Almost ready. You’d have found a way to drive her off by now, I’m sure. I do wonder what John was thinking, selling the property to her at all.”

George drained the noodles. “Perhaps it’s time for something to convince her to move on.”

Step by step, the shadow president of the entirely unofficial, nonexistent homeowners’ association laid his plans aloud for his late wife, pausing for occasional bites of spaghetti.

His shadow nodded in response. At the end of the meal, it slipped out of the kitchen window without him and crossed over the fence line.

George sat at the table with a sad smile and took a sip of wine. “Wish you could see this, Lydia. He’ll be up to all sorts of antics now. We’ll have a ‘for sale’ sign in her yard within a week.”

***

My prompt about the aliens’ dream invasion went to Becky Jones. Check it out, as well as the rest of the More Odds Than Ends odd prompters!

Something Different

February 28, 2021 / fionagreywrites

I promised more a while ago on thought processes. Behind the Prompt, if you will. This one went through a number of iterations in my head, and then what poured out was…nothing like what I’d imagined.

Odd prompt, from nother Mike: “The kids were carrying moonbeams in a jar…”

(My own prompt of “In retrospect, the arrow through the calf shouldn’t have been the first clue” went to Leigh Kimmel.)

Initial reaction: Cool, I love this prompt! No idea what to do with it, but awesome, can’t wait to play around with it!

Idea one: Kids running around in the backyard, catching moonbeams in a jar like fireflies. I may still play around with this sometime.

Idea two: Moonbeams = moon message transmissions.

Idea three: Moon beans, the misunderstanding.

Idea four, that I thought I’d be writing: A new light source has been discovered, but only works on (or is kept secret by) the moon. The mental image was of glowing mason jars in a moon cave, carried to careful storage on each handmade shelf by herds of children just old enough to be trusted. Because while preppers weren’t what the space program wanted, sometimes you needed to store up emergency supplies once you got there.

Here’s what happened instead.

***

They didn’t want preppers for the moon colony. They wanted survivalists. You know, the types you can drop off with a pocketknife and a water bottle, and they’ll have shelter built in a few hours.

Or you drop them off empty handed, and they find their own pocketknife and water bottle. You remember the type.

Anyway, there aren’t a lot of people like that anymore. When 3-D printing took off, it really took off. Everything you can think of at the touch of a button from the same pile of sludge? Building your own anything was seen as quaint. Suitable for hobbyists, or one of the neo-Luddites that shunned technology.

Unfortunately, the 3-D trend happened right as the lunar base needed emergency manning.

And it wasn’t like space was a popular destination. Not after the Zelma. Sure, there was a lot of nostalgia for the old shuttle era. But when a whole colony fails…well. Then it’s someone should go, but maybe I’ll wait until the tech is fixed, amiright? Those poor kids. Someone oughta make a law. What where their parents thinking?

Besides, that training program is hard, and few make it.

But me, I was raised by my Grandpa, and he by his. He taught me woodworking, basic engineering and mechanics, and which plants would kill you. I could make everything from knives to jam to candles. They needed people like that, people who could fix stuff. People who couldn’t resist the urge to fix stuff.

It’s not like there’d be kids carrying moonbeams in a jar to illuminate the habitat’s interior. You can only put so many light bulbs in space. Or boost so much weight in that 3-D sludge. They save that for printing astronaut food, mostly.

So when the call came to re-crew what should have been Zelma’s home, I felt that pang in my chest for a place that would value those skills, even if I’d have to relearn or adapt half of them. Grandpa has passed the year before, and putting in for it felt like a good way to honor his memory.

He’d have done that snort-laugh of his at the idea, then clapped me on the shoulder with a hand stiff with age and hard work. His way of showing pride in my accomplishments, from the first Pine Derby car to the first buck.

Besides, I was bored.

It’s not like I expected they’d actually accept me into the astronaut program. I didn’t have a formal education, or not much of one. My knuckles were dug in with grease no matter how much I scrubbed, calluses rough from the bow string, scarred from whittling Grandpa’s last Christmas gift.

I guess this time, they were looking for something different. Zelma’s crew had been carefully selected and trained, and it still wasn’t enough to guide them in without disaster. Why not go for the scrappers like me?

Later I heard the rumors during training. That the bureaucrats expected failure, just like they expected we could barely read. We were supposed to be the excuse to shut the whole expensive program down. Give it up for another few decades, just like we did after the initial early years burst.

People like me, we take that as a badge of honor. Don’t tell the bureaucrats, but we already renamed the ship from Penelope to Scrapper.

In the meantime, I’ll tighten my straps one more time, because the countdown has begun.

I can’t wait to prove ‘em wrong.

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